


Earn Your Wine

by londonfalling



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Brother/Brother Incest, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Incest, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Public Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24927736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/londonfalling/pseuds/londonfalling
Summary: Vergil loses a fight and his composure. Dante finds this romantic somehow (5V/5D).
Relationships: Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 94





	Earn Your Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, zero plot here.

By the time Vergil loses his footing and the game, Dante has forgotten the exact reason why they're fighting in the backstreets of _Devil May Cry_ in the first place. At the latest the bolt of arousal surging through him makes sure of it; he watches how Vergil gasps and stumbles, knocks him down to the ground with the flat of his blade and once he's there places a foot on his belly, contracting and expanding rapidly with his wild pulse. It was probably stupid, something about the dishes or things said and done more than twenty years ago. Hard to care now: blood rushes between his temples, he's high with the triumph. It's tangible, tastes salty, has a solid body heat. The fact that his foot doesn't immediately get torn off or even removed from the spot by gentler means only seals his victory. Score for Dante, he's up one. The fatigue weighing on his frame like lead is totally worth it.

Vergil takes time to just lie on his back and get his system in check again. Wallow in his disappointment as well, maybe. It's an attractive look on him: his hair is tousled into a bird nest, his cheekbones burn angry pink, his pupils are adrenaline-blown and he's right there, under Dante's heel because he put him there. His brother. His doing. The urge to drag him up by his lapels, grab the absurdly thick coat he's still wearing when Dante stripped to his undershirt like an hour ago, causes a full-body throb. Pick him up, lick the annoyance of his lips until it turns to different kind of agitation. His toes curl, his heart beats inside his mouth. Vergil whirrs. His abs have gotten a lot more prominent lately, Dante notes, poking them with detached curiosity. The flesh is deceptively soft under the sole − the power lies in ambush unforgotten, but it's at his mercy. He has his life, and these days, he can merely hold it, have it in his hand so warm and vibrant and responsive, no coercion to cut him down. So many sacrifices committed to get them here. When his fingers twirl lightly around the shoe, Dante presses his insistent boot harder on his midriff as a goodbye, draws out a winded grunt and retreats. Let's see.

Getting up takes a while for him too. For a moment they stay still, Vergil flat on his ass and Dante on his feet, wobbly with the exhaustion and excitement, both well deserved. The lull of an aftermath is nearly post-orgasmic as they listen to each other wind down. Their smell is heavy, two base notes combined into one. His body aches. Vergil's is no doubt screaming. Even the antagonism wouldn't be out of place in the bed, and besides, drawing the lines between foreplay and squabbling is frequently a coin toss. The jury's still out on whether it's a peculiar demonic mating thing or just them. He's unsure where the situation is heading, so he waits and tries to blink out the perspiration that's making his vision float. The display is simply too scenic to miss.

Eventually, Vergil's stare gets sharper and his expression clicks. When he gets up, his poise is impeccable, his face dirty. He wipes the blood staining his busted, almost healed lip with a flick of his wrist. Dante senses the motion as a thump at the bottom of his stomach. Go on, do it. Tackle him again, it whispers, but that's going to be on the menu some other time, when his legs quit buckling. He has difficulties determining what the mean glint in his twin's eyes is supposed to signify. What will it be today?

For the most part, his brother is a creature of habit − admittedly, the emphasis should be thrust upon the word “creature” there since watching him make choices is sometimes akin to inspecting how a test rat keeps picking the option that's guaranteed to electrocute it. He's predictable enough until he isn't, but the circumstances where he throws his carefully curated rituals and behavioral patterns out of the window can be seen coming after extensive hands-on research. After the nth occasion he's interrupted one of Vergil's little yoga sessions, for example, (“It is not yoga, Dante, it is _breath control_. I assume you are familiar with the general term since you are always so eager to have my hands on your neck.”) Dante's fairly certain it'll lead to his sibling building a fort in the attic and refusing to relent until he begs him prettily enough or he thinks he's been sufficiently punished with the radio silence. Kissing his ear is in the relative sense a guaranteed way to get jumped by him, and if Dante makes the mistake of “misplacing” a book by putting it back to the shelf, he's sure to hear about it for several days, mental daggers hurled between his ribs. Trial and error. These assessments aren't bulletproof rules in all meanings of the word, but Vergil is simple under his bullshit and these days Dante's good at spotting trends even if he chooses to gleefully ignore them.

It's natural that the semi-predictability applies to the physical side of their coexistence too. No, Dante's not talking about bedroom activities, although they are a common synonym to the actual theme, namely fighting. More often than not, the result of their brawling is a tie either because they're so evenly matched and in such a fine-tuned synch that their differences only complement each other, or then because they get distracted by said bedroom stuff. If it's the former, the chances are they're too tired to do much of anything apart from maybe sharing a bath, leaning against the walls and each other so that they won't fall and drown in the drain or something. In the latter case, the steps are explicit too, so to speak. 

It's mostly a draw. Not always: got to admit his brother takes home his share of matches, sometimes quite brutally so. Dante's pride might smart for a bit, but he's not exactly complaining when it happens. Too much stability spells out boredom and okay, he might more or less secretly dig the benefits of losing. Having his ass handed to him tends to promise good things for the ass in question. When Vergil wins a round or the tally of several rounds, he usually abandons his gloating ways and turns mellow. It's a little unexpected but not unwelcome, even if his attention is oppressive when it makes love to Dante, his weight in and on him protective, clinging to him with kisses long after the both of them have had their peak and lingering affection makes him reluctant to pull out. Or, if Dante has some leftover oil to burn by that point, he lets him bounce on his lap, the adoration on his face so plain that Dante has to shield his head or close his eyes so that he won't do something rash to wipe it off. It's sweet and kind of funny that Vergil's sappy side overpowers him if he manages to overpower Dante.

Except when Dante throws a fight, then there's hell to pay. He does it sometimes because it drives Vergil mad like nothing else, which in turn happens to excite him a lot. He wants Dante to enjoy their clashes while taking them seriously and gets insulted if he doesn't. Sure, it's more than likely he has to have a lonely wank in his lonely bunk after the winner has stormed out in his disgruntlement, but when the trick succeeds, Vergil's grip on him is rough, demanding him to pay attention. All things considered, the punishment is worth the damage to his ego. Vergil has caught on. On some occasions he's been big enough a prick to first get Dante on the edge and then leave him hanging. Often he sulks when dissatisfied, trains even more vigorously than usual and/or spends an inordinate amount of time just watching Dante with a blocked expression, the purpose of his inspection unclear. It ranges from scrutiny in the shower to Dante waking up in the middle of the night to find Vergil observing him again. The staring thing is somehow less creepy than it sounds like, more… contemplative, maybe, than anything else, but he doesn't get the impression it's related to developing better battle strategies. He asks and gets no answers, so ultimately he shrugs it off. Vergil is a weird guy and it's not like Dante never ogles him − what can he say, they're easy on the eyes even if their eyes are no longer identical.

“Dante. Are you ready for a rematch?” Vergil pipes up. His face is spotless now and mostly blank, though feverish. Is he primarily resentful this fine noon? Shame if that's the case, Dante was looking forward to getting his back scrubbed.

“You're kidding me, right? No, I'm sure as hell not kicking your butt until tomorrow at the earliest,” he says.

Vergil walks up to him with the intention to protest. It's in the way he sets his shoulders. Boxy, ready to tick. Dante pulls him into an embrace to calm him down and also to test the waters, help him get out of his shell at his own pace: sometimes it's easier to get a read on him without words, especially when the reader happens to be dumb and somewhat illiterate. Standard operating procedure is to tread lightly but with confidence. He'll yelp and get stabby if Dante's about to cross a line.

The effect is instant − the line of his clavicles slackens and lets his respiratory organs do their thing. A deep inhale, a wrist skimming his. Not furious, then. Dante guides him into a tentative kiss and is pleased by how eager he is to answer him. Getting warmer. Vergil's mouth on his is a live wire; his tongue slides against him once Dante opens for him in a surprised gasp, it's sloppy and so hungry it's gnawing on his bones. A hand sneaks up to press against his nipple, the other one rests on his belt. Equal exchange allows Dante to grope his rear, tragically boney in comparison to his yet a delight to knead, gets Vergil thawing. His body flexes and relaxes as he inhales loudly. Warmer.

“Your parrying was atrocious,” Vergil's reddened lips tell him, brushing against his like he's loath to part from them long enough to let the words out.

“Suck it up, my swordplay was _effective_. You lost, Vergil,” Dante replies, mesmerized by him licking the spit away. He ducks in to steal another kiss just to be contrary, to twine a new string of saliva between them; Vergil whines quietly but isn't the first to break contact. Seems pretty safe to say the reaction of today is some brand of horny. He doesn't mind.

“This time. You are very sure of yourself, good: let's have another round,” Vergil answers at length. If his pitch getting darker does things to Dante's insides, he'll be aware of it due to the guns and things straining against him in his proverbial pockets. Oh. That reminds him. It might be time to set Ebony and Ivory aside. He did injure his crotch during intercourse that one time and it was only marginally less horrible than expected because of his twin's boggled, incredulous expression.

“Blow me,” he answers, weapons disposed of. It's tempting to have a go, it always is, and this dash of rivalry would give it a spicy erotic kick, but he knows his limits. Vergil's too − he's not in much better shape, he's just too stubborn to drop the matter. Would he literally spar to death if nobody interrupted him? Dante doesn't intend to find out. They must have one adult in this household, after all. There are ways to decelerate the perpetual motion device. Maybe this works.

Vergil responds to the retort by biting Dante's lower lip. It's not enough to draw blood, but it sends a spark to his veins all the same. Then the douchebag decides to get literal; he drops to kneel in front of him, fluid as water. The yoga enhances flexibility too, it seems. His smirk is wide and wet when he speaks.

“Would you like me to?”

From above, his eyes are shaded by his lashes. When Dante remains silent, Vergil cants chin up and reveals that his irises are tinted an inky blue. His body is far less innocuous than his verbal act. He's intentionally plucking the guitar string of tension, the only instrument he has interest in. Smug devil.

Dante's reaction is less than elegant, but he can hardly be blamed for it. Bringing Vergil to his knees in this manner hasn't lost its novelty one bit: since he's had to genuflect out of command in the past, it conveys a lot about his comfort level when he goes down willingly. Yeah yeah, they initiate stuff equally as often, but every time he does it out of the blue, a fleet of fluttering bugs finds its way into Dante's stomach.

It's, well, it's nice to be wanted.

“What?”

“To blow you,” he repeats, disarmingly earnest. 

“Yes, why would-- Wait, I'm onto your game, I think. Planning to bite little Dante off, are you? I honestly wouldn't put that past you right now.”

The grin is ever so angelic. Kind of unnerving on his sour features. “You are finally admitting it is smaller?”

Dante sputters in indignation. It's true, but dude, you don't say shit like that out loud. Zero tact. “You mistake being a dick, which you certainly are, for having a big dick. It's an optical illusion anyway, you're so skinny it's impossible to compare with any accuracy.”

Obedient, Vergil stays put but looks as if he'd rather be sucking cock already than wasting time on inane banter or retrieving a measuring tape. Jesus. Several body parts of his twitch and stir in interest. So maybe he likes this far more than he ought to, he's a weakling, sue him. Impulsive is too handsome a style on his twin.

“Whatever you say, my dear.” Sheesh, he's taking no prisoners. His usage of pet names remains as sarcastic as ever, and yet Dante's big enough a sucker that his ears are still reeling from the “darling” episode a few weeks ago. Cursing Vergil and his unfair tactics, he laces a hand in his hair.

“Now that you're speaking, the idea of you shutting up for a bit does sound kind of appealing,” he admits. “Teeth?”

“Only if you ask me to.” Dante can practically hear how sharp his canines are. Kinky.

“I didn't say 'bite me'. No teeth, I won.”

“Duly noted.”

“Then I guess I'm all yours,” he says, waving his free hand in a languorous arch and shifting his weight to recline against the building. Too tired to put on a show? This'll be over in a blink.

(Also, this got hot. Jackpot.)

That doesn't mean his mind's not into it and going into overdrive at the concept of Vergil sucking him off out in the open. Dante's penis seems to be sharing the opinion when he presses his cheek against its totally respectable length. Figures it'd be faster to adapt than the rest of him: the reasonable lobes of his brain keep pointing out this is unusual. For the first, there is the aspect of getting straight to the point. Throws him off. Vergil is not as great a prude as Dante likes to claim he is, but he's physically incapable of not picking the indirect approach if it's there. Is, uh, usually. But Dante can't be thinking about just how appealing him being forthright is if he wants there to be something for him to fellate by the time the clothes come off, and he _can't_ think about anything for a second when Vergil lays a palm against the trunk he's bared, hnnh.

Then the elephant in the room. Vergil doesn't do public places in general. What Vergil doesn't do in particular is have sex in public places, granted that the grand status might be under debate here. He's a private person who wants to keep Dante, the personification his weaknesses, all to himself. It's understandable, doesn't really need fixing. (Can't help testing the limits anyhow because Dante himself is broken.) His own attitude is more ambivalent, not that he's given it that much thought apart from less than successfully offering Vergil a handjob in some shady men's room to gain one of the trashy teen experiences they never got to have. The idea of being seen owned is not _bad_ when it boils his insides. On the other side, he's crazy protective and his jealous stripe is even wider than Vergil's. He wants to be the only one who knows what his pleasure sounds like, and unless he's dumped for a more functional boytoy, he'll fight to keep it that way.

This is a low-risk operation, though. The part of the city where Dante has established his, and he supposes their, office is not the most reputable district around. Getting shanked in broad daylight happens, although the probabilities for that have got to be smaller for regular mortals with less notorious surnames and gung-ho genes, so law-abiding businesses tend to avoid the block. Not much traffic, not too many passersby. The alley makes an excellent vantage point for a pair of demons too, he observes as a hand pries his fly open, why is he so weird open the belt first you idiot. The dumpster shields them from direct street view and in the other direction there's nothing but a dead end. They'll know if a client or any other human is approaching and have time to react accordingly, at least if they tune the bleating down. Demons are a different matter, but their senses should give them a fair warning before -- the buckle is undone, Vergil yanks the pants down a bit and kisses the sliver of skin he uncovers on his pelvis, the spot next to where his hair grows into a thicket.

“Fuck,” Dante croaks, intelligent.

Vergil presses another imprint on the canvas of his midsection, then jerks the trousers all the way to his shanks. “Maybe later.” Then it's nothing but the distance separating them. Maybe this should feel awkward: Dante, following Vergil's weird example and going commando more often than in his bachelor days, stands in the limbo of _DMC_ 's side street half-naked, more than half-erect. Doesn't. The strangest things have a natural clang to them with Vergil. The power of love.

Let it not be said that the asshole doesn't appreciate efficiency, no matter what he said about Dante's newest sword trick. When his grip wraps around the base of his cock, the presumption is that he he'll stroke the length for a while, cup his balls on his palm, blow hot air against the tender tissue to torture it. Nope, overt fondling doesn't happen. He approaches the task cruelly indeed, but not by being a damn tease. The hand is there as a guide, to press Dante against his insistent mouth, a mirror of the earlier shoe display. The brief contrast between his purple tint and the reddened state of Vergil's lips is lovely in itself. They are ruthless as they take in the head up to the point where it flares out and dive forward without a pause, the shaft bypassing his gag reflex with valiant effort. Dante curses; the tight ring of his throat struggles to fit his girth around the middle; Vergil bobs down until his nose bumps against flesh; rolls back on the foreskin with a trail of glistening saliva; meets the corona, squeezes it far too kindly; bows for him again, reverent, ravenous energy revving up his tempo. Fuck, just, fuck −

No need to tell him to take this like a man. If the goal is to dissolve Dante into a mindless puddle to take his turn under the heel, Vergil will pass the test with flying colors in a couple of moments. This is some serious goddamn competitive spirit right here, fucking hell. It's hot, the sleeve of his mouth radiates heat when Dante sinks in its depth, wishing he were free to hump his dumb-ass face faster, harder. Hot. The skin below his eyes, near the watery corners and the bridge of his beak, gets a bit scrunched and his forehead creases with focus. It's somehow as cute as it's obscene. So motivated to be the best in absolutely everything. Why does this hurt and soothe him.

Dante tilts his head back towards the sky as his cock strikes the back of Vergil's throat repeatedly, an uneven rhythm. Cloudy. It might rain later. Sort of weird that it isn't now, what with how often their battles have been storm drenched. Might be a positive, both of them are somewhat likely to spook at intruding memories. He'd hate this to be another instance of fail sex. Sometimes when Dante impales him with Yamato during prep time, he just… switches off and resurfaces stony-faced minutes and hours after the mood has died a premature dead. Unideal − c'est la vie.

Presently, Dante's dying to hook a leg around his shoulder but can't, he's trapped in his clothes. If he could formulate even a remotely coherent comment, he'd say something snappy about rewards and stuff. To the victor go the spoils. Instead, he fixates on not trying to snap his pelvis forward, push into his throat, because he well and truly can't, he's pinned and immobilized. Vergil sets the pace, Vergil's very intent on making it quick and dirty. His role is to trace the curves of his skull, he's there, inside his head, and express an embarrassing amount of gratitude for the coarse bricks that scrape against his ass, the sole reason he's still hanging on and not filling his brother with his spend.

It's good, it's − good. He's running out of words to distract him from the release knitting itself tighter in his lower stomach.

On cue Vergil, the bastard, retreats to the glans, tonguing the slit while gripping the shaft firmly. _Pay attention_. Makes Dante look at him, has the gall to halt for a little smile as he runs a nail on his taint and rips shivers out of his spine. The expression dwells on his lips intact when they close around the tip again, lap up the precum, envelop the crown and sink all the way down. His hair is a bigger mess, his face is flushed, he looks ridiculous and ridiculously happy.

“Vergil, your mouth,” Dante begins. The thought falls apart because it's not an actual thought, just a praise, his hard-earned victory slipping from his grasp. Gratitude. 

Vergil's answering hum vibrates on his tongue. It's too much. Dante's hands slip down to caress his neck and jaw with sudden urgency. The muscles move under his touch as they strain to accommodate him; Vergil swallows back a sound, his throat tightens, Dante loses himself in him.

It's good.

When he comes to, they've both stopped making noises and Dante's behind is raw and numb. Light catches Vergil's lips. They're plump, the ruddiness extends beyond the borders of his mouth, they're puffy and red like his cheeks. Sated fog swirling at the top of his cranium, Dante imagines circling his finger on the lower one. Detangling any takes too long, however. Vergil draws back with a pop, some drool and come escaping from him in the process to bead down his chin. He wipes his mouth on the back of his palm and makes a face, then wipes the hand he's spat on with a handkerchief he produces from the folds of his coat. The gesture is the same he used to deal with the bleed and has no right to be more erotic than amusing or irritating.

(It's not that he spits out of some categorical principle, which wouldn't be out of character for a notorious picky eater. He mainly does the opposite when he's about to do him because he knows it turns him on: could that be where this is going regardless? For his part, Dante never not drinks it all up, even if Vergil sometimes looks weirded out by his greedy enthusiasm. Not opposed to that option either. Must be said that quality won't be much after this stunt.)

He coughs. “Would − would you like a hand there? I could try and return the favor too.”

Vergil hoists himself up in his dainty manner, puts the cloth away. “I am fine, thank you.”

His vocal cords are not fine.

“Are you sure? You're very happy to see me now,” Dante points out. The tent is yelling at him to do something, he's too generous not to notice it.

The glint makes a comeback. “I would be happy to see you in combat again, certainly.”

Amazing.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Vergil, I've just shot my load in you. I have zero fight left in me, nada. Next I'll, I dunno, take a shower and sleep for a week or so, have a smoke. Let's do this later.”

“A pity. I would have suggested taking you against the wall next, but I can help you upstairs instead.”

He breaks into shivers. Shit. Vergil talking dirty is his kryptonite, not that the words even have the decency to be particularly lewd. One of the little childhood idiosyncrasies his sibling has kept alive is his refusal to swear or curse apart from literal hexing and other magical jazz. He lashes out at things but never does it by howling out a “fuck” or the equivalent of that in any language known to man like a normal person. Seriously, his precious Latin has more depraved and perverted content than any other topic of civil conversation, yet he skirts around the nasty bits, citing only verses about love and untimely demise, the resident killjoy. This in turn makes sexual profanities a true weapon, doesn't matter if they are pinched or used to gut Dante on purpose. Vergil calling him gorgeous as he watches him touch himself. _I want to fuck you_ , said akin to a prayer. _You feel good_ in a slick voice. Murders him to death.

(Frankly, Dante has ruined most of the aforementioned situations. The shame bubbles up at regular intervals; he specifically dislikes thinking of what came after the compliment on his supposed gorgeousness. Abashed and blindsided, he ended up putting both his feet in his mouth and adding his biceps to the gaping mess for the heck of it, blurting out an asphyxiated _That's pretty gay_ accompanied by a cackle that barely left his esophagus. Vergil, thank god and every other jerk that has made him the way he is, dismissed the comment by raising a brow and drilling him maddeningly enough that no additional idiocy could slither out, his savior. It's more graceful a reaction than he deserved for sure.)

Dante's quite red now too. It's okay, so is his brother. “Well, I said I'm not up to rolling around on the pavement. I can, you know, stand. If someone else was to do all the heavy lifting, I could be persuaded to spread my legs.”

Vergil draws nearer. Then he aborts his attempt at a kiss in the bud, realizing that sucking face post oral will be gross. He does taste stale when Dante pecks him anyway. Filthy; he sucks his tongue and tastes himself stuck on his gums. Note to self: consult the women's magazines Trish gave him for the sex tips, find info on diet and sperm flavors. Learn to eat more pineapple.

He would love to play coy, but he's positively surprised his knees carry him when he scrambles to turns around and lean against the brick wall. Or rather wilt. Would be proper to perk up for him a little, but honestly, if Vergil wanted him to be his pushy bossy self, he should've thought of that before getting his rocks off so soon. A hand settles on the small of his back. The encouragement isn't necessary but he is glad for the support. Dante maneuvers his sleepy limbs with a strain, propping his left arm against the tiles to form a cushion for his face as he's gently pushed flush against them. Apparently, the view is to his brother's liking − his clothed groin maps the bend of his body and leaves nothing to imagination until he withdraws to deal with the fastening.

Despite all the evidence pointing towards impatience, Dante expects a modicum teasing if only as a matter of form. He starts to list medical terms when this turns out to be a false call as well. Reduce it to biology. Anus. Rectum. Pelvic floor, sphincter, the puborectalis. Doesn't help, he still groans. Vergil is running his thumb around the rim of his entrance already, his motions accompanied by the sound his hand gliding on his own privates. By this point, Vergil finding him attractive should be a given, but him getting off on (in, with) his body doesn't seem to be getting old. The respective body is heavy and he's so lightheaded with the notion; Vergil likes this, wants it. Vergil is hard, gets turned on by Dante's arousal, presses the side of his finger against the edges, their elasticity inviting him to go further.

“You should, you should be carrying around a vial of oil or whatever if this is becoming a habit and a tube of lube is too pedestrian,” he says. Wow, that was an entire sentence. The thumb, warm and dry, enters him. The push is slow but confident with how smoothly Dante welcomes him. Pain isn't necessarily unpleasant, it's not that friction and resistance don't drive him wild, but it doesn't hurt when the second joint breaches him. He tenses and puckers around the base experimentally; the thumb begins to rub against his walls, first soothingly and then with agonizing intensity. He grunts, senses how the blush dyes his ears. It deepens when the thumb twists to widen him so that Vergil can spit inside. It's the outdoors he blames, fresh oxygen enhances circulation.

“Should I? I am under the impression you enjoy it like this.” His voice is maddeningly stable as usual even with the huskiness, but his breath hitches, appreciative; the digit is replaced by two long fingers. Dante, relaxed boneless, swallows them readily and swallows his frustration when they stall in place. Come on. If he's expecting an answer, his silence should tell him all he needs.

Yeah. There's no denying Dante likes his roughness, how it keeps him grounded and provides him evidence of Vergil being real. He is, they are. Their relationship is real, current, it has survived their past and seems to have a future. Conversely, his gentleness is much harder to take − it's a reminder of them being both fragile and nonetheless capable of killing one another. But when gets to see how their closeness affects Vergil, it's about power too. He likes how Vergil wants him so openly (wants him so open: he works the fingers in and out of his hole to soft wet sounds, the heat of his cock grazing him almost by accident). It makes him vulnerable and honest in a way Dante can understand intuitively; inside Dante, he lets Dante inside himself in exchange, something syrupy like that. For all appearances he's fumbling for dominance and ends up unraveling himself more thoroughly. He's smart enough to recognize this, yet he seeks it out, burns for it.

When he crooks his fingers sharply, his other hand climbs to Dante's waist. His grip is possessive, the scissoring motions get bolder; the third digit fills a narrow. He's breathing heavily against the nape of neck as his fingers spread him wider. Mine, it's all saying, yours.

It's doomed to fail, but Dante struggles to keep a level head. “Someone's needy today.”

Vergil answers by retreating. Before Dante can air his dissent, plead for him to continue because he can't abandon him like this, he slides his erection between his cheeks, over the sensitive skin, not in because he's awful, firm and intense and present, and making a point. He won't be walking away unfulfilled if it's up to him, no.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, leans back and slips in the in the fourth appendage, making a shallow thrust just to the first articulation point. The message he's trying to get across is probably something like “yes, what about it?”, but in reality he just messes with Dante's articulation.

Yes, a lot, please don't stop.

He squeezes out a laugh. Wheezing lungs give it its paltry volume. Vergil traces the sound by tapping his diaphragm, his smile audible in his fingerprints. _I do need you. Please, let me in._

“Got a, ah, terrible joke about being hot and bothered I haven't used on you yet, but, mmm, I don't think that's what you want now. C'mon.” There's a gravelly quality in Dante's speech, like he's been the one to give head in the not-so-distant past. He exhales, Vergil leaves him hollow. He doesn't entertain the possibility of refusing him, using the upper hand to banish the one reaching out for him.

A handy thing about their hybrid build and devout monogamy is that STDs don't pose a threat. You'd think they'd save a fortune when there's no medical reason to buy French letters. The both of them hate the additional layer anyway, so it's cool, right? Where you'd be wrong is that they're ready to take their pissing contests and other forms of power play to absurd extents because of course they are, even to their own detriment. As a rule, Vergil fucks him with a condom if he's prissy about something but not actually angry, punishing himself for having emotions with the same convenient strokes. Since the climate is still ripe for pettiness, Dante listens for the telltale signs of a foil being ripped in two. They stay away. The cock that soon nudges his opening is very much bare, thank heavens.

The tip enters his ass with the help of a fist after the first try slips towards his tailbone. Vergil eases into him slowly with a dragging but continuous motion, their fit snug. Familiar. 

“Ah,” he rasps when he's fully sheathed. Like he's surprised it feels the way it does, every time, what it does to him. Tentatively, his fingers secure their hold on Dante's sides. _I need you. I want to be alive for you_. They get used to existing in one body again; Dante rearranges his mind as his physique adapts, the intimacy hugging him into loosening.

The thrusts grow short afterwards. Vergil's barely moving out him, staying deep near the bottom bound by the drought. Dante plants a palm over his floppy dick so that it's the back of his hand that the wall scratches, which makes Vergil buck into him that much harder. Emboldened by this, he tries to at least assume a wider stance, unable as he is to rock back against him, but the trousers bunched around his knees disagree. The metal parts of their clothes make metallic sounds and the new and exciting textures supply him with chills down his spinal column. Doesn't beat being naked and having access to Vergil's nude thighs. In recent times, it's a place where an improbable portion of his body mass has begun to concentrate and where strength is corded into his quadriceps femoris. He wants to touch what is his. In the air, the smell of leather is strong and goes straight to his loins; Vergil's musky scent underneath is cloying as well.

It's distracting, to put it mildly. Their senses are as serviceable as ever in the middle of the sensual bombardment, so speculating on someone walking in on them is nonetheless pure speculation, academic. Still. It would characteristic of Trish the imp to make a surprise appearance right about now. It's not a steamy scene because it's her, a platonic friend and a living reminder of parental disappointment, which indicates something unsavory about his tastes. Hah. A copy that only appears to be a blood relative is surely better than an actual family member with his big members and all. It'd merely give her new ammo − she's far to skilled at bullying Dante as is, so no thanks − and they'd have to stop, which is the last thing Dante wants. But if it were someone else, a random person? Maybe there's a thrill buried there. That they're closely related is blatant despite the changes. Vergil is taller, leggier and has a more prominent mouth, a lovely insane mouth, but his chin is Dante's, his mandible, the hair. Once upon a time, it would have been nice if the fruit had felt forbitten due to the consanguinity and not his own feelings. Now that he's allowed to have this, Dante would like to shout it from rooftops, declare him his, while his inability to say words to Lover himself lives and prospers. Having Vergil fuck him from behind is a way of possessing him; perhaps it would be amplified if someone, everyone, saw that, how he can barely bring himself to leave his skin long enough to pull back. Public displays of affection or ardor, his defenselessness in front of Dante.

His shirt is plastered against his spine, damp and itchy when Vergil addresses him in a low timbre: “Try to keep your voice down.” He's tugging his trousers for more direct contact, to give them a larger common surface. When his hands return to cinch his waist, the fabric covering his cods now pushed aside, both their skin and respiration gets louder. Genius, very stealthy.

“How?” Dante accuses. He's beginning to see just how keyed up his brother has been when he realizes how long he's kept his silence, speaking-wise. Dante's been waiting for playful mocking, but baiting garners no results. Vergil doesn't seem to be able to answer the question, merely slams forward particularly gruffly and keeps nailing him, noisier slapping notwithstanding. “You could take your, oh, own advice.”

Vergil's reply is another broken vocalization. Why the fuck is that so flattering?

Dante bites his lip. Too much feedback, he's overwhelmed, shudders at the thick suction. The surface of the wall remains scratchy, the darkness beneath his eyelids is velvety. In its cradle, his muddled mind comes up with an asinine onion metaphor. There are different sides to Vergil, an army of layers, and if he cuts deep and gets too close to the core, his eyes start to sting with water. Dante has Vergil's life and Vergil has his. Skin on skin, he's more certain, it almost feels like they melt into one. It feels like he is worth claiming and being claimed by, and as incredible as it is, it occurs to him that this isn't about domination. Vergil is _proud of him_. This is how he can show him his value and maybe have him believe it. Of course he craves it, his approval, his faith on him, wants to be lathered with his attention, complimented and lauded by his gestures and confessions. He's trying to hate himself less because if he is someone who Vergil obviously, miraculously loves so much even if he isn't what he truly needs, he can't be as worthless as he has come to believe. Not sure if it'll ever work out, but it's comfortable when it gets this palpable.

Today, the event is sizzling out. Inhuman stamina loses its meaning when they wear each other out beforehand and are so weak for their reflection. Experience tells Vergil could coax a dry orgasm out of him if he set his mind to it, but he rolls his hips so sloppily, his composure stuttering, crumbling − he's too far gone himself to make it last long enough. Dante sees him drawing it out, and on some other occasion, he might demand it. The image is vivid, they've been there before. He could make it terrible and mutually torturous and awesome; while their position and lack of slick doesn't allow for pounding, Vergil tearing into him without restraint, the angle lets his girth brush against his nerves. If Dante had more steam, perhaps he'd even trash him into dirt again and ride him, force Vergil to make him grasp his climax a second time. But his hold on him stiffens. He won't last and it's alright. There is nothing to prove, nothing they're forced to chase after. Just this pleasantly aimless pressure and proximity.

Yeah. He sometimes thinks about it, how they could spend time in Hell. In honesty, he's considered suggesting a second honeymoon in some remote corner of the underworld. It's an easy sell, more exotic than the Bahamas and next to no annoying tourists. Cheap real estate or rents for a summer house if you can butcher any competition, get squatting rights by force and hostile takeovers. It's not like they have many requirements for accommodations and entertainment either when the main attraction is beating the crap out of each other with abandon or fucking like bunnies. It's appealing: getting tired would be less of an issue there with demonic regeneration being amped up to the max. He thinks they missed out on the fun on their first one. While the trip dragged out, they had shit to address and wasted the holiday on the sex front. If he were to promote the vacation plan, he'd probably have to touch upon how he kind of really unironically wants to spend the rest of his life with him and celebrate that, though, and he's simply not there yet. The why is difficult to figure out. Realistically, the worst that could happen is that Vergil would laugh, and not even in the cold asshole way but fondly. He knows this already, he can tell, he knows.

Vergil would say yes. He's saying it currently, sings it with every fiber of his being, stupid cliched romanticist screwing him up by screwing him so sweetly. His desperation turns erratic: he slips his hands under Dante's shirt to mark him with a trail of sweat, his palms a spring of warmth roaming on his stomach, clutches the area as if he could feel himself moving inside him, closer, closer, kissing his neck, the breath against the side of his neck ragged and pained. If Dante knelt before him in turn and proposed to him, he'd say yes even if he was in essence hellborn and uncivilized and didn't exactly know what he'd agree to. If he thought it'd make him happy.

“Vergil,” he says because words don't obey him and find a more fluent form. He wants to praise him too, tell him how much this simple thing means to him in explicit terms. He tries, and like the times before, flunks. Defaulting to body language is safer, easier to digest. Vergil hears its tone clinching around him anyway. Just as him handing over the control to Dante, his acceptance of it carries significance. The name ends up sounding something like _you did well_ ; he can only hope Vergil doesn't find it too patronizing. One day he'll get them even. Until that, they'll proceed in baby steps.

Vergil mumbles into his shoulder, hoarse and so silent that it gets mixed into his panting. Knowing him, it's some variation of “I love you”. Fuck him, that's an illegal move. Dante chokes back a moan or a sob, arches his back to meet the heat pumping inside him, does his best to tighten up for Vergil as he pulls his hips sealed against his and comes in a satisfied sigh. A distant part of his mind focuses on mundane details, thinks it's nice of him to finish inside his body when he could well be spiteful enough to spill on his clothes, especially after the incident when Dante ejaculated on his good pants semi-accidentally on their latest date night. The wetness spreading between his legs washes the musings away and replaces them with a whimper. Vergil grinds into him before going taut, the root of his cock locked to Dante's rear and propping it a little higher. He's perhaps better at suffocating his moans than him by a whisker, but both performances have room for improvement. Maybe a little practice is in order before attempting this in more public settings.

The post-orgasmic moment they share feels like the aftermath of a fight: there's more sweat in his eyes, his heart skips beats and does double jumps, his lower body throbs and he's lost sensation on the arm that's crushed against the wall. Who would've thought. Vergil's skin breathes in tiny trembles while his palms rest over the navel, leisurely starting to cover him in circles drawn by the pads of his fingers. Shaky. Having emptied his fighting spirit in Dante, he's the manifestation of content, nuzzles against his neck and verges on purring, softening where they're still joined. His sunny disposition coupled with the swelling the coupling has brought about downstairs sort of prevents Dante from calling him a sore loser, damn him.

This is a moment.

Say something. Snark. Profess your love. Inform him his nails are getting long.

His right leg is really starting to cramp now. Vergil notices, massages his flank to prolong the inevitable. They part with a sucking sound. Probably should hop around a little to reduce the pins and needles, but Dante's busy with his unsuccessful attempt at controlling his muscles; his thighs get more slippery by the second, great. No new blood to add to the splatter they smeared on the concrete in the beginning, his sense of smell announces. For better or worse, nowadays reality is tangible indeed. After decades of depressed alcohol-induced coma, it has its virtues.

Vergil's hands are unfocused and sex-hazy when he tucks himself away. Underneath his calm aura and docility that'll pass before long, he looks about as messy as Dante feels with a swaying posture and a sweaty luster on his neck and temples. His hair ends curl ever so slightly when they get moist, adorable. It's all very endearing, yet a sensible party would ignore that in favor of chewing him out, swoon later. Mister _I can still fight_ , what a riot. Absolutely no one is surprised by his judgement being poor, but come on, this cat-like sleepiness proves he was in no condition to wage war. Dante's dreaming of being engaged to a complete moron.

It appears he's caught himself a gentleman too. When Vergil spots him standing still in concentration, he looks like he wants to offer him the napkin. Bros before hoes and so on; it's pretty touching. Dante's stubbornly pulling his pants up and trying to zip up before he can make a move, though. They're both done, getting caught has lost all its glamor. Best they scamper now. Somehow, the fluids running down his ankles manage to feel much sluttier than the fact he was, you know, just banged in some seedy, technically public back alley by an even seedier person and wow, that pun was totally unintentional if inspired. Put in those terms, it does a poor job at explaining why he's so damn mushy about the whole thing.

It's definitely not the picture-perfect romance he saw glimmering in front of them when they were young and how much it has cost them can't be glossed over, but it's them and theirs. Furthermore, he believes the score is sitting at 2−0. “So. Since this was your idea and you've soiled my gear, you're on laundry duty for the rest of the month.”

“Will you fight me about it, my love?” his echo replies, now marginally less sarcastic.

It's good.

**Author's Note:**

> Got the title from Horatius (Odes 4,12, “vina merebere” in Latin). It's actually used in the future tense in the poem; it can be translated as “you will earn your wine”, which could tell something about the way I see the future unfolding for these two or then not. Idek, I'll go back to angst now.


End file.
